Hot to Trot
by BlackNymph
Summary: A young journalist for a renowned Gotham women's magazine just seems to fail at everything she does. In order to get her career back on the right track, she gets a story everyone in town can look forward to: just how eligible are Batman's rogues? For /co/
1. The Riddler

**For /co/.**

She pinched the bridge of her nose, the fingers of her other hand stilling on the keyboard. It figured, of course, that reliving the experience would be what gave her a migraine – worst case scenario when it was actually happening was that she had to smile wider and pretend she was doing something else. Very far away.

Not that all of the dates were bad, no. A fair few were, dare she say it, fun – if the men weren't convicted felons, she'd certainly have given some of them her number. Well, her _real _number.

Refocusing on the screen, she brought the memories to the forefront of her mind, instinctively placing them in relative order of enjoyment.

Despite the undeniable fact, she would have to say the Riddler date was the best: he was polite, he held the door, he made her laugh (deliberately, and more than once), and he certainly wasn't hard to look at. The perfect gentleman, if a bit stuck-up.

Such a pity...

-

"So this is your…fifth? release from Arkham, yes?"

The directness of the question did nothing to deter his knowing smile – it had been on his face since the date had begun, though, so she didn't look too much into it. "It is indeed. You could say the place has a bit of a revolving door."

Considering the place in question held people like the Joker and Killer Croc, she didn't know whether or not to shiver. She opted for dabbing her mouth with her napkin, and moving on with the conversation.

"Well, what do you do now that the police aren't all over you?"

Nigma leaned back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. It looked for a moment as though he would answer her question with another question (as he had been doing nigh the entire night – she honestly wasn't sure how many more expectant pauses she would be expected to make before getting her non-answers), but he simply waved a hand and smiled wider. "Detective work here, designing electronics there. It seems I've been suited for life outside the box along."

"I imagine the government's certainly eager to keep you busy – "

"Would the two of you be enjoying dessert this evening?" their waiter inquired in his heavily accented voice.

Now it was her turn to smile: her boss had promised to pay for each and every date until this story was completed. It had seemed only fair, really.

The Riddler didn't wait for her to respond before turning to the waiter, answering in rapid-fire French. The waiter bowed at the both of them before scurrying off to complete the order, and Nigma returned his attention to her.

"You speak French, too?" It shouldn't have come as a surprise, as he had proven himself, throughout the course of the night, to be proficient in a great many languages. French, indeed, seemed tame by comparison.

He inclined his head. "I wouldn't be able to call myself 'The Riddler' if I didn't dabble in all forms of wordplay, now would I?"

Her mouth opened to reply with something possibly charming, perhaps coy, maybe witty, but suddenly her date stiffened, focus directed at the front of the restaurant. The smile on his face slowly melted into something positively wicked, and he excused himself.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him approach a dark-haired, broad-shouldered man (she vaguely recognized him as Bruce Wayne) with open arms. Wayne's posture was rigid as Nigma slung an arm about his shoulders, laughing.

Sighing, she dug a notebook out of her purse, and jotted down a single sentence before propping her elbow on the table and dumping her chin into her hand.

'Riddler is gay.'


	2. Scarecrow

**Suddenly, a Jackstraw! Fuck, why is this guy so hard for me to write?**

Of course, that was to be expected. Not that he was gay, though there _was _a limit to how well-dressed, well-mannered, and well-versed a straight man could be. No, it was only to be expected that Riddler would provide the most tame date, by comparison. The Riddler's reputation wasn't intimidating so much as it was moderately respected – he hadn't killed anyone, he wasn't something to fear.

Even at the thought, she couldn't stop the tremor crawling up her spine.

Fear. She had almost drawn the line at Jonathan Crane. Sure, where Joker would _possibly _blow her up, or Two-Face would decide if she got a dance or a black eye at the flip of a coin, Crane wanted the fear. Indubitably. There was no doubt in her mind, no grey-space; on a date with the Scarecrow, it would follow that she would be scared out of her mind.

-

She had not expected something so...casual from a man like Jonathan Crane. Light dinner and a movie; nothing fancy, no frills, and most importantly, no thrills. For a good while, she couldn't help but be suspicious.

However, for a good while, that suspicion remained baseless. He was courteous, willing to start up conversations on her interests before divulging his own; it was as though the burlap mask and straw-filled tunic had never even been near this man. Finally, on the way to the theatre, she felt herself relax, just letting herself enjoy the conversation.

But then she saw the title of the film from the curb: Hell on Oak Avenue: Beginnings.

She had seen Hell on Oak Avenue. She had heard reviews for this remake. It was supposed to be a clever, modern take on the original, which was the pinnacle of horror films in its day.

Somewhere in the world, she was sure Captain Obvious was laughing his ass off.

Her look of complete disbelief (how could she be so naive?) went unnoticed by Crane as he returned to her side with tickets, a smile on his thin face. She almost snapped at him, to ask what the hell he was playing at, but something in that smile made her hesitate, made her take his arm and follow him to the concession stand, made her hold the popcorn as he carried drinks.

It wasn't the smile of someone who had won a sick game, who was enjoying someone else's squirming – it was the smile of someone who had gotten tickets to a movie they wanted to see.

Still, she didn't swallow a single drop of the soda he handed her, nor did she accept any popcorn. He may have behaved himself until then, but she certainly wasn't stupid. And because she wasn't stupid, she remained wary of everything.

Of course, being wary for too long can make a person tense, and being tense makes the little surprises all the more pronounced. Every time the hatchet-wielding maniac jumped from the closet, or whenever the floorboards creaked pointedly, she jumped ever so slightly.

After each twitch, she felt herself liking this movie less and less. If she hadn't been gripping the armrests as tight as she was, the crickets chirping would have made her jump a foot in the air.

Beside her, she heard a slight chuckle, and felt Crane lean over. Oh god, he wasn't going to gas her was he? Oh, she could feel it coming, it would happen, and her heart would leap straight from her –

"Too scary for you?" His voice was calm, smooth. Somehow, the murmur made his accent stand out all the more, made it seem so...sinister. She barely suppressed a shiver and smiled unconvincingly.

Suddenly, the screen flashed red and the music screeched to a halt. Her eyes snapped shut instinctively, and she couldn't have stopped the whimper tearing out of her throat if she tried.

Crane laughed again, somewhat louder this time, and she heard a rustling sound. Cautiously, she opened an eye and caught a glimpse of a small notepad in one hand, pencil in the other dancing across the paper. He caught her eye, grinning. "How long have you been holding that in?"

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, and she settled for looking sufficiently horrified.

He prodded her arm with the pencil, grin still on his face. "Would you mind doing that again?"

"Would _you _mind keeping it down?" an agitated voice whispered from behind them. She turned her head, giving the man behind them a look she hoped was less pleading than contrite.

Crane waved a hand at the interruption, never taking his eyes from her face. "Come, come. Just once more. The pitch was just excellent – "

"Look, buddy, some people actually want to watch this. Last time I'm going to ask before – "

She saw it happening before it actually did: the man leaning forward, to put more weight into his threat, and Crane nonchalantly taking what looked like an inhaler from his pocket and spraying the contents in the man's face. The man shuddered, a rasping sound coming out of his mouth, and then he was silent, as close to the fetal position as one could get in a theatre chair.

Then the arm holding the gas canister was moving again, and ohgodohgodohgod he was going to spray her with it, ohgodohgodohgod –

"Perfect, thank you." Satisfied, Crane spent the next few minutes scribbling in his notepad while those around him shuffled into different seats. He looked incredibly pleased, like he was in his own little world. Indeed, he didn't pay her any mind when she dug out her own notepad.

'Scarecrow is into dominance. He gets what he wants.'


	3. Two Face

**Sorry for taking so long. Nonexistent Two Face muse is nonexistent.**

Though she had to give the Scarecrow one thing: he actually _knew _what he wanted. There was no hassle of will-he-won't-he, and there were few surprises.

But with Two-Face, everything was a surprise, everything was a gamble. She imagined the doctors at Arkham had a hell of a time trying to wrestle that coin away from him, even for a moment. She would have loved to have given it a try herself, but she hadn't a death wish at the time.

In all honesty, Two-Face was the kind of person she could honestly see herself dating. Either of him, in fact: Harvey Dent, Gotham's fallen DA, or Harvey Two-Face, one of the underworld's uncrossables. But only if he would choose between the two; it wasn't that he was a criminal, it was that he was unpredictable. You never knew what you were going to get from him until it happened.

-

It was luck that she had gotten the date instead of a shiner. Not that she would have given up if the end result was the latter, of course. This story was important! She smiled awkwardly at the largest of Dent's cronies nonetheless, and counted her blessings.

She counted them again when it took thirty minutes to decide which table she and Dent would occupy, and where his henchmen would skulk.

And again when the waiter got a fist to the face for asking if Two Face would like to see the wine menu.

And again when he played Russian Roulette with the terrified manager.

Finally, after three more coin tosses (and more importantly, three more martinis), she flashed the scarred man a suggestive smile, conveniently brushing her foot against his calf as she uncrossed and recrossed her legs. "You know, there's really nothing here that couldn't be found at, oh say, my place," she noted.

The conflict in his face was almost adorable, and she could just hear him weighing the options in his mind: on the one hand, _she _had asked _him _out. She seemed to actually enjoy his company, rather than relish in the notoriety it could get her.

On the other hand, his coin. His entire belief system. Luck decided everything in life, and whether or not he was getting laid was one of those things.

He held up the coin, showing her good-face. "Your place." He turned the coin over, and she took the opportunity to accidentally rub her foot against his leg again, flashing a brilliant smile when he narrowed his eyes.

His hand lowered slightly, and Two Face continued his silence, as though trying to decide if he should truly tempt fate.

Finally, he held up the coin again, bad-face staring at her. "My place."

She grinned in response, positively Cheshire-like, as she watched it sail through the air.

And landed bad-face up.

Fuck.

She had been hoping he would have made the two options extremes, like he had the rest of the night, and it would have come down to bodily-harm versus her place. Worst came to worst, it would have landed good-face up, and he would have ended up at her place. If that had happened, she could have poured glass after glass of scotch down his throat, and convinced him the morning after that they really had done the nasty. But this...

Fuck.

It was a great effort to keep the smile on her face as they got their coats and got into the car. Options were running through her head, each sounding stupider than the last. Fake food poisoning, fake menstruation, climb out the bathroom window...

She glanced over at Dent. He seemed just as displeased by the outcome as she was, turning the coin over and over on his knuckles. Finally, he flipped the coin and, looking satisfied at the good-face, snapped at his driver, "Take the long route home."

She canted her head, keeping her face carefully blank. "What's up?" Her tone was largely neutral, but a hint of panic seeped its way in; she attempted to cover it with another smile.

Dent squinted at her a moment before flipping the coin. "We're gonna find out."

Her reaction to the bad-face was a mixed one. On the one hand, she wasn't being forced to sleep with a man she didn't want to sleep with. This was universally a good thing.

On the other, she noted dryly as she tucked her shoulders to avoid unnecessary injury, she had just been pushed out of a moving car.

Thankfully, the river-bed at the end of the slope broke her fall. Sighing, she waded back up the hill to where her purse had landed, and dug out the notebook, plucking a piece of God-knows-what from her cleavage.

'Two Face likes to keep his options open. As often as not, he ends the night alone.'


End file.
